Regardless of your political views, there’s no denying that there is a lot of grieving in the US and abroad as a result of the 2024 election. The part that has made me grieve most: the polarization.
As of this writing, there are 12 House seats yet undeclared, and only 11 others have been flipped.
Even if every uncalled seat flipped–which is highly unlikely–that would mean only 5% of the entire House changed parties. This leads me to believe that most people have already decided to vote for a party, regardless of the candidate. After the primaries, a candidate could just stay home and win anyway.
And to me, that’s terrifying. Knowing that type of cognitive inflexibility exists paralyzes me.
And upon examining that, I realized it's not fear.
It's grief.
Effects of Political Grief
Ignoring all the political ramifications of cognitive inflexibility, what bothers me most is the day-to-day challenges that those beliefs bring. As a person who uses public transportation, I can attest to just how quickly people’s tempers can flare when one person simply says the name of a politician. We know nothing about our fellow riders other than their feelings on a single political figure, and yet, we’re quick to build an idea of who this person is based on one or two sentences. And then we decide how much we hate them for it.
Even more notably, as Thanksgiving approaches in America, many people are already dreading spending time with family members who don’t share their same views. In previous election years, this ‘twas the season for verbal and physical assaults as we stuffed ourselves with turkey and mashed potatoes. I can’t help but wonder about this year.
So I grieve for every family who is torn apart by this election.
For every person who is wrestling with how to relate to others.
For anyone whose life is a little harder than it already was.
And for those struggling to cope with the trepidation and uncertainty of what this polarization means.
Digging Deep for Compassion
Years ago, a friend was going to tell me a story of someone who had done something so obnoxious that my friend was still upset. Knowing me well, my friend started this story with, “Okay, let’s see what compassionate spin you can put on this one.”
And to their annoyance and amusement, I did give a compassionate perspective. My theory was that this person had experienced a trauma about this topic and was lashing out at strangers who would attack him rather than ask questions to understand his view.
By the time the tale was over, I felt worse for the subject of the story than for my friend.
But sometimes I have to dig deep–very, very deep–to find that level of compassion. I know that I’m not always capable of that, and I see a society filled with people who don’t possess that ability right now either. Often, this isn’t because we don’t want to sympathize; rather, we are so stressed and emotionally exhausted by the world that it feels too difficult to muster the energy for that depth of interaction.
Renowned therapist Carl Rogers, who pioneered client-centered therapy in humanistic psychology, once provided a session to an individual who was an officer in the South African army during Apartheid; Rogers had to “stretch my empathic abilities to their very limit” to try to help this person, and that session ultimately impacted the individual’s life.
I’ve shown the above interview to high school students interested in psychology, and they nearly always say a version of, “There is no way that I could be a therapist for a client like that.” I tell them I understand; I doubt I could muster that level of compassion myself.
And yet, this week, and next week, and the years that follow–as America’s political chasm seems to deepen–I’ll still spend time with people who view the world very differently, and I’ll acknowledge that we’re all human.
When needed, I’ll dig to find my compassion.
My mental health depends on it.
Practicing Joy
Thích Nhất Hạnh once wrote, “Practice joy.”
Years after I read that simple sentence, it continues to eat at me and fuels who I am–because my interpretation is different, I think, than that of his primary audience.
Many people who know that sentence interpret it as looking for glimmers–those small, wonderful moments that remind us that the universe is good. These readers focus on the joy part of that sentence.
But I’m fixated on the word practice.
Joy doesn't come naturally to me. I can't remember the last time I woke up as purely joyful as a six-year-old on Christmas, Hanukkah, or Diwali. Perhaps it was when I was their age. In my daily adult life, I do not immediately awaken grinning, laughing, and stumbling down the stairs to my bliss.
To me, practicing joy is not unlike practicing a musical instrument. Sometimes, I dedicate hours of my day to doing something that truly makes me happy. Sometimes, I hear my old band director yelling, “You won’t learn it by leaving it at school!”, and I begrudgingly force myself to find joy. Sometimes I hear his voice and ignore him anyway–just like I did when I was a teenager.
And when I’m in the depths of grief–including this newfound political grief–I have to compel myself, kicking and screaming, to acknowledge that there are still plenty of glimmers to be found.
I just need to practice looking for them.
My Somatic Healing: Writing
LIGHT Movement encourages individuals to find a mind-body connection to help us grow with our grief, regardless of its age or type. This time, I’ve chosen to write fiction to process these complicated feelings.
It may not be the same as journaling, but it is therapy for me because I can invent a world that makes sense–a world in which I can practice joy.
The antihero falls in love. The villain gets their due. Enemies become friends.
Compassion wins.
Compassion. Always. Wins.
And creating it in a fictional world allows me to further visualize it for this messy, nonfiction one.
It reminds me to hope.
An Invitation
Writing usually works for me, but I know plenty of people who would rather watch paint dry than try to process their grief through writing, and that’s completely fine.
Somatic healing is about finding what works for you, not for someone else. Whether you’d prefer to bike, hike, dance, paint, collage, do yoga, knit, sing, or nearly anything else, find what allows you to practice joy and find glimmers.
Consider trying a few of LIGHT's classes to see what might work best for you.
Our second annual A Night to Illuminate Grief solstice event will be held in-person and virtually. Please join us on December 21 to share your story, connect with a community, and find light on the darkest day of the year. Last year’s attendees can attest to the healing power of this event, and we welcome everyone.
Everyone.
Because just like in my fiction, at LIGHT, compassion wins.
Empathy wins.
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